


Go I Know Not Whither and Fetch I Know Not What

by diadema



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, F/M, Light Angst, Magical Realism, Winter Holiday Gift Fic Exchange 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28038990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: This isn't quite the fairy tale ending he'd been hoping for.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2020





	Go I Know Not Whither and Fetch I Know Not What

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SydneyMo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyMo/gifts).



> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, SydneyMo! May your days be merry and bright. <3
> 
> Beta thanks to the incomparable Somedeepmystery!

The first thing he thinks when he wakes is that he is very young. He is a child in a man’s body, an old soul staring out of young eyes. Illya’s mind is a haze as he blinks, disoriented, out of the dream… or perhaps into one. There is a distinct gleam of unreality as he stares at the strange walls of a strange room. Strange, but not unfamiliar. Not someplace he has ever been to before in person, he’s certain—more like something out of a…

_ “No.” _ He bolts upright, throwing off the faded bedspread. He doesn’t know what quirk of fate has brought him here, or  _ how _ the Cowboy has managed to pull this off, but he is having none of it. There’s only one problem (he hopes).

His legs don’t work.

Illya strains against the leaden feeling in the lower half of his body, the useless weight, the unresponsiveness. It is the dream-like paralysis he knows all too well, but he is awake, is he not?

None of it makes sense, though Illya isn’t convinced that any of it is meant to. He exhales sharply through his nose, fingers tap, tap, tapping.

And, like some unspoken signal, the door opens. Three hooded men glide in, long, white beards trailing over dark, whispering robes.

“Illya of Murom,” they intone.

_ Murom? _ There is something so familiar about it. The gears in his mind whir rapidly as he goes through his mental rota. They snap into place, stalling the longer he is in denial over it. Yes, he has heard this name before.

The sheer absurdity has him chuckling. “You are storybook men, aren’t you? And let me guess,  _ you _ are here to heal my legs.”

The men stare at him, but they don’t deny it.

“What are you waiting for?” he prods, amusement tinged with disbelieving scorn. “If I am to become a great knight and save the kingdom, I need to be able to walk.”

“We will heal your legs,” the man in front says, “but be warned. You must—”

“Be good. Yes, yes, I know.” He is already standing, brushing past the robed men. “I will go into the town, slay the monster, and we can all live  _ happily ever after. _ ”

“Be warned, Illya Kuryakin, Knight of Murom,” the man says softly. His companions flank him, seeming to take up the entire room. “The only monster is the one of your own making." He continues to advance on him. "Your arrogance has condemned you. May you find that which will save you.”

Illya falters as the gravity of the situation hits him, unbelievable though it may be. He senses magic, and somewhere locked in a more innocent corner of his mind is the knowledge that he should never take his chances with such forces. He has read the stories, as fervently as he may deny it. Maybe that is how he has ended up here, far removed from the reality that he knows.

He bows his head in apology. “Forgive me. What must I do?”

The men stare through him, speaking as one.  _ “Go I know not whither, and fetch I know not what.” _

And with that, the room spins, and they are gone, trailing ice in their wake. Illya squeezes his eyes shut and swallows, gets his breathing under control, and hopes beyond hope that this is just some terrible, terrible dream.

* * *

It takes some searching, but eventually, he gets a lead. How much time has passed in the real world, he cannot be certain, but here in this dreamspace, he has been roaming the countryside for several days, talking to the locals and getting his foothold in this strange realm. A search of his room had yielded only a purse full of coins, a sword wrapped in an old cloak, and simple clothing emblazoned with an insignia known only to himself. At first glance, he could mistake it for the State Emblem of the Soviet Union. There is the gold hammer and sickle he knows all too well, but rather than being superimposed onto the globe, it is, in fact, behind it. What’s more, the globe is different too. It has the unique curvature and artistic lines of the UNCLE logo, not caging, but rather  _ encasing _ the symbols of the proletariat like ribs around a heart.

He’s not ready to think too much about  _ that _ symbolism. The more pressing question, the only one that matters—more than how or why or where—is what has become of his partners?

Illya tamps down the churning waves of emotions as he finishes saddling up his horse. “So you are called Destiny,” he mutters, all but rolling his eyes. “Take me where I need to go.”

The horse tosses her head with a snort but acquiesces, ambling even further than Illya’s thoughts. They are heading deep into the woods, to the place where all the rumors seem to converge. All of the villagers whisper about it: a distant castle shrouded in mystery. Some claim there are as many as twelve princesses living there. Others say there is only one, but that she is grim and unsmiling. Still others whisper of a mysterious secret that borders on the supernatural.

The only thing they do agree on is this: those who go to investigate are unlikely to make it back.

It is small wonder, he thinks, as he finds himself in a complicated maze of foliage and vanishing pathways, breaths labored and thoughts muddled by the weight of enchantment surrounding him. Caught up in such a place, it is simply all too easy to lose one’s way. Even those who could manage to keep their wits about them may not be immune.

Illya is used to the routine: the laser-like focus, the perhaps overabundance of caution. No matter what force of God or nature is thrown at him in this Universe, though, he is determined not to be waylaid.

As if the sky has heard him, the dense and ever-shifting sea of clouds part above him with the ghost of a laugh. A shaft of shimmering sunlight pierces through the canopy of leaves, slicing through the illusions. Illya’s lungs expand gratefully for the reprieve as clear sight and a clear mind is restored to him. He blinks with the sudden brightness as his eyes chase the beam of light to a road that had previously been hidden from him. A sudden gust of wind pushes man and horse forward as a chilling certainty aches in Illya’s bones.

_ Is it malice or mercy that this path should be revealed to him? _

Illya has no doubt in his mind that this is the correct road. He also has no choice in the matter except to follow it.

Eventually, they catch a glimpse of a village in the distance. Leading his horse on foot, Illya and Destiny gingerly pick their way out of the brambled claws of the forest. He pats the horse’s silky hide as his keen blue eyes scan the terrain, noting a scattering of quaint dwellings, modest and neatly kept. Women pin clothes to dry on a line or tend to livestock, children kick up clouds of dust as they play in the unpaved streets, while men talk easily amongst each other. Further on, he can see glints of sunlight dancing on the surface of cobalt waters.

But, this  too , turns out to be an illusion. 

The inviting glow and warm, welcoming atmosphere begin to dim and waver as Illya makes his way to the village and to the imposing castle on a hill that looms above it. Upon closer inspection, the people look dirty and hungry, some with vacant expressions and others with darting, narrowed eyes. Illya keeps his eyes trained forward, even as he reassures himself of the sword buckled at his hip.

A sudden commotion pulls the villagers’ attention away as gleeful howls sound from the banks of the river. In their voices, Illya can hear relief woven through with desperation, and a sharper, sourer note that almost borders on cruel as they crowd around their catch.

Despite his initial instincts to lay low, Illya charges towards them, leaving Destiny behind as the sounds of the river growl louder in his ears. Far from the glittering body of water that had been hinted at, the river can generously be described as murky.

But that is not what catches his eye. In between the tangle of limbs and the sprays of brackish water are glimpses of something unusual: a subtle, rainbow glittering, too pearlescent to be entirely natural.

_ Magic. _

Illya shoulders past the men and sees a pike thrashing in the crude, barbed weave of a net. It is the largest fish he has ever seen. It could easily feed these clearly-starving people well.

As loathe as he is to do it, Illya feels that he has no choice but to intervene. He shouts roughly at the men and snatches the net from their hands as they stare, dumb-founded, at him before grappling for rough-hewn spears and jagged daggers.

A sloppy kill, if they would have their way. “Don’t,” he grits out. He has no interest in fighting. Illya fumbles around for the coarse cloth of his coin purse.

“Here.” He tosses it to them, not even bothering to count its contents. They need it much more than he does, and he is able to fend for himself. 

He can do without.

One of the boys catches the purse, goggling at its weight and the startling clink of coins. “Take it,” Illya says, “but leave the fish alone.”

It is not a decision that they make lightly: to secure a meal now or try their hand in buying or trading for it later. While coins are no substitute for food when one is hungry, they do have their use.

After a tense moment, they concede, and scurry off, jostling each other to divvy up their newfound wealth. Illya can only hope that they use it wisely. But the men are no longer his concern.

The pike’s flanks heave as Illya swiftly disentangles it from the snare and gently guides it back into the water. 

_ Thank you.  _ The voice echoes in his thoughts, bell-clear and undeniable.

Illya blinks, not so much surprised as startled. “You are welcome,” he responds aloud. He fiddles with his cloak, somewhat awkwardly. The pike seems to eye this gesture with a sense of bemusement, perhaps even a hint of judgement.

_ You shall need a new one,  _ the pike says,  _ for what you are about to do. _

Illya falters. He himself still does not understand what is being asked of him. Perhaps Fate (or Destiny, he thinks wryly) has had her hand in this as well.

_ To find the answers you seek, you shall need a new cloak. One that will keep you hidden from sight. Here, _ the pike says, nodding its pointed nose at Illya’s feet. 

It is Illya’s turn to gape now. Where once the net had lain, now rests a shimmering cloak, reminiscent of magic scales on the pike's own underbelly.

_ You will need it tonight, _ the fish continues, before hesitating.  _ And one more thing. Do not drink the wine. _

With a powerful splash, the pike disappears into the cloudy, dark depths of the water. Illya carefully bundles up the precious gift and tucks it into the saddle bag of his horse, who had placidly caught up with him.

“You are not magic too, are you?” he asks. The horse eyes him balefully. Illya chuckles and pats Destiny on her haunches. “I will take that as a no, but I just needed to be sure.”

Steeling his resolve, Illya urges Destiny onwards and up to the castle on the hill, trying to comprehend just what sort of challenge lay before him.

The castle gates are unguarded. Was it arrogance, or a sign of something else entirely? The vacancy of the courtyard is eerie, somehow feeling even more threatening than if it had been heavily fortified with armed soldiers instead.

A flash of movement catches his eye, and Illya raises his hand warily in greeting. A page boy approaches him and wordlessly takes Destiny’s reins. Illya is forced to leave the magic cloak behind… no way to retrieve it or carry it on his person without arousing immediate suspicion.

He takes note of the direction the page boy is heading and, gritting his teeth, knocks on the massive, elaborately carved door.

No response.

He knocks again, louder this time. When there is still no response, he forces it open, barreling into the Great Hall.

Clearly, his timing could have been better.

A servant groans on the floor, evidently having come to let him in. Illya hastily helps him up as he finds himself the center of attention at a once-lively feast. It appears that his sudden, clanging appearance has driven the revelry to a screeching halt. The guests are in a state of suspended animation, cutlery hovering halfway between plate and mouth as the musicians peter out to an even more uncomfortable silence.

He tries to utter an apology, intending to slip out of the room when a thin, familiar voice stops him cold.

“Well, isn’t he a fine specimen?”

“Who said that?” Illya barks, thoughts churning as he frantically scans the crowd. He knows that voice. He  _ knows _ that voice.

“A shame he had to open his mouth.” The speaker is closer now, still masked by the sea of people. “We could almost have forgiven the intrusion then.”

The man creeps out from the crowd, and Illya comes face to face with none other than Rudolph von Trulsch. The monster he knew in another life as Uncle Rudi. Illya swears vociferously, fingers twitching for his sword.

“My, my, such language,” he chides. “I had hopes that your rank might exceed your manners.” Rudi pinches the corner of Illya’s cloak, examining him. “But no amount of livery can mask ill-breeding—especially such threadbare ones as these.”

Illya’s nostrils flare, war drums pounding in his ears.  _ “You should be dead.” _

The man eyes him with cold fascination, even as all of the guests gasp and guards edge closer. “Is that why you have come here? To kill me and steal my throne?”

_ Throne? _ Illya all but rolls his eyes, exasperated and furious.  _ When he finds out who is responsible for this, he is going to— _

“Actually, uncle,” a soft voice rasps. “I believe he is here for me.”

The familiar cadence of the words pierces through the red mist even as his mind stutters over the improbabilities of the situation.

Gaby materializes in a cascade of midnight-blue, a delicate diadem like stars in her hair. The hem of her long gown whispers over the stone floor as she stops before him. She tilts her chin at him, part challenge and invitation. “Is that true?”

_ “Da,” _ he mutters, a bit lamely. Far be it from him to know just exactly what was going on, but there was no way he was leaving this place without her.

Rudi sniffs. “Yet you are no prince, no nobleman.”

“He is a  _ knight, _ uncle, and he has traveled far to be here.” She squares her shoulders as she turns to face him.  _ “And _ , he is my guest.”

“I am only saying,  _ liebling, _ that as far as suitors go, he is—”

Illya tunes out the rest of it, for his ears are burning for a very different reason.  _ Suitor? _ His pulse is racing.

“—then he can prove himself,” Gaby shoots back. She shrugs gracefully. “You’ve seen for yourself that none of the others has managed it.”

“How am I to know you will not help him?”

Gaby gives Illya a quick once-over. “I think he can handle himself.”

“And if he can not?”

“Then that is none of my concern.” 

Rudi hums as he considers this. “Very well,” he concedes. “You may dine with us.”

Illya nods curtly, preparing to make his exit when Rudi holds out a hand to stop him. There is a cheerful glint in his eye. “I suggest you make the most of it.”

Gaby leads the way to a table where a servant has proffered him a chair. “Do you have a name,” she asks him. If Illya didn’t know better, he’d interpret her tone as boredom, but there is genuine curiosity beneath it.

Somehow it only makes his heart sink.

“Illya,” he supplies. There is a moment of hesitation, then, “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Have a name.”

Gaby regards him coolly. “Yes,” she says, “but I wouldn’t get too familiar.”

She knocks back the rest of her drink and starts to move to a different table. Illya catches her wrist, and she freezes.

“I am your suitor, am I not?”

“Not for long,” she says grimly.

“No,” he agrees, smiling. “Not for long.”

His lips skim the back of her hand before he lets her go. Gaby doesn’t look back as she leaves him, though Illya can’t help but notice how she idly brushes her thumb over her hand.

Illya warily takes a seat at his table, veins humming with competing streams of adrenaline, though not least because Gaby—whomever she may be in this universe—does not have any idea who he is


End file.
